


Rainor

by Varaen



Series: Maglor In Time [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: GFY, Gen, Gratuitous References to Various Religions, Maglor in history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:43:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7839868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varaen/pseuds/Varaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Maglor wanders the earth, his life turns from history into myth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainor

There are fables among humans that are suspiciously similar to each other, even between scattered settlements or across continents. Most of the time, the origin can be traced back to common ancestors or some similar origin. Some can be traced way back to the mythical cradle of Humanity. But there is one that is both among the most ancient and the most recent examples of those common fables.

The tales always begin with a stranger wandering into town. He has long hair, as dark as the night sky, and eyes that shine like stars. His skin is the colour of cracked mud. He wears a long cloak, and his back is bowed with the burden of long years, but his right hand is smooth and hale. His left hand however is a twisted claw, scarred skin pulled tight over bare bones, as if all flesh had been burned off, and the limb healed afterwards. But that was nonsense. No one could survive such an injury.

He would wander through the streets as if aimlessly, but always his meandering path would end in front of an inn. There, he would ask the owner for a warm meal and a place to stay the night in exchange for his art. They would ask what art that might be, at which point he would reveal a beautiful silver harp hidden beneath his cloak. He would name himself a minstrel, and sometimes, in more remote places, that would suffice to earn him room and board. In larger cities or along well travelled roads, a sample would be demanded first. But, and this is another point where the ancient fables are eerily similar, the wanderer always received what he asked for.

He sings until the last patron leaves, alternating seamlessly between epic poems, hymns, songs and chants, between the trivial and the profound. As deformed as his left hand looks, it does not impede his abilities. The harp sounds crisp and clear, imbued with a beauty that transcends description.

After that, he asks for his promised meal and bunk with a humility that is at odds with the proud tone of his singing voice and the ingenuity of his harp. Once he hides his exquisite instrument under his ragged cloak, he fades back into obscurity, and one might almost believe him a vagabond, were it not for his noble countenance. But even that is quickly hidden in the shadow of his hood, and just as quickly he is forgotten. Just another wandering bard, they will say in the morning, once he leaves. Just another roaming wastrel.

But for months after he leaves, no one falls sick, be it human or animal. Crops grow tall and healthy, and good fortune lies on all righteous endeavours. Seldom does a tyrant rule for long after this wanderer passed through their realm. Few ask for his name, and fewer receive an answer.

"I have forgotten," he might say, or "I have many names," without mentioning a single one of them. Sometimes, when faced with a particularly stubborn inquirer, he would have them call him Rainor, which means wanderer in the tongue of the elves, and is more of a description than a name. At other times, a particularly forward individual would take the initiative and name him. Thus, he becomes Linnaglar among the Dúnedain of the North, and Dínaer in the South. He receives yet other names in other places, either referring to his enchanting voice or to his wandering in a local language.

Over time, his deeds turn from tales into fables into myths, and finally are ascribed to deities. His whimsical flute playing becomes immortalized in the forms of Krishna, Pan and the Pied Piper, his skill with the harp merges into the myths of Bragi and Dagda, his artisanry eternized in the name of Väinämöinen. He recognized variants of his exploits in the myths of Huehuecóyotl, Bastet and Kokopelli, as well as innumerable others.

It bothers him little. He bore witness how the tales of humans transformed his contemporaries from ordinary people to heroes, how the Ainur turned from elder siblings to deities in their mythologies. Only the terrible and the trivial remains as the deeds of mortals, mythical or historical, over the millenia. The wonderful, the exceptional and the beautiful is the domain of divinity, and divinity only.

And history repeats itself, over and over again.


End file.
